


Waiting

by meetmeatthecoda



Series: Waking [1]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: 5.8, Angst, Drama, F/M, Lizzington - Freeform, fall finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 16:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12775107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meetmeatthecoda/pseuds/meetmeatthecoda
Summary: Part 1 of the "Waking" Series. Detailing Red's perspective on the events of 5.8, heavily featuring Dembe. Angsty Lizzington.





	Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to "Brief Encounter" by Dawn Golden while writing this. His whole album "Still Life" is amazing but "Brief Encounter" in particular helped to inspire this fic. If you're the type that likes to listen to music while reading, I highly recommend it!

Here he is again, waiting. Waiting to hear whether Lizzie will live or die. He is here in this place far too often. 

He has no one to blame but himself.

He couldn’t bring himself to go inside. He should have. He feels horrible, sitting out here in the car, Lizzie’s blood slowly soaking into his skin, but he can’t go in. He can’t watch if…if it happens. Not again. Once was one too many times. 

So here he sits, cold and still, Dembe holding his hand. Waiting.

He’s not sure how long they sit there, completely silent. Not until Aram comes out to the car does Red realize that the sky is light. Does that mean it’s morning? Not if she’s…not if she’s gone.

Another day will not dawn for him if Elizabeth Keen is dead. 

Dembe unlocks the door and lets Aram into the front passenger seat because Red can’t move, he’s been sitting here too long to unlock his frozen limbs, the absolute terror keeping him still, unable to flee from his panic and pain. And it’s just as well. If Aram has…bad news, Red would rather he not be witness to the break-down that he knows is imminent. Aram is far too fragile to see something like that. 

But Aram starts to speak and darkness doesn’t wash over the sky, cold doesn’t shatter his heart, the world doesn’t end. 

Lizzie is alive. 

He picks out words like surgery, brain damage, inflammation, fluid, and induced coma through the roaring in his ears but he can’t properly focus on them, because she is _alive_. Red lets out a huge breath that he must have been holding in for hours and hours, somewhere in his chest where his heart is still beating weakly, holding out for Lizzie. And with that breath, the tears come. 

Dembe quickly thanks Aram for the update and ushers him out, out of the car and into Samar’s waiting arms, before Red starts to gasp for air. 

“Hold on, Raymond.”

Dembe starts the car and speeds off, not going far, just to a nearby parking garage, so that Red can have his overdue panic attack in relative privacy. Dembe parks the car, turns the heat on high, and climbs into the backseat beside Red, wrapping his strong arms around Red’s smaller form and coaching him through breathing, the way Red did for Dembe when he was young and his past came back to haunt him. The way Dembe has done for Red whenever he wakes from a particularly ghastly dream. And it makes sense.

The past few hours have been nothing short of a nightmare. 

Once Red has had his fill, crying and gasping and shaking, he manages to calm himself enough to speak once again, thanking the man who fills the shoes of both a brother and a son. Red asks Dembe to take him back to their current safe house for a shower and change of clothes before they head back to the hospital.

“You should sleep, Raymond,” Dembe chastises him quietly. “Elizabeth may not wake for some time yet.”

“You don’t know that,” Red mutters, rubbing tiredly at his face, his eyes swollen and aching. “She could wake at any moment and I want to be there.”

Dembe purses his lips in silent disapproval. Dear Dembe. Always looking out for him, though Red has no earthly idea why. He doesn’t deserve Dembe any more than he deserves Lizzie. But his friend returns to the driver’s seat regardless and they are on their way.

Red takes his time in the shower, scrubbing all of Lizzie’s blood off his skin, though he irrationally wishes that some of it would stay. A physical representation of the metaphorical truth of his existence: Lizzie’s blood has always been on his hands, since the night of the fire. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed over these long years. 

He tries to his best to shake that thought off and wash it down the drain with all the filth he can feel on his skin but after forty-five minutes under scorching hot water, he comes to the awful conclusion that he will never get it all off. It’s far too late for that. 

He stands in his bedroom, naked and staring into his closet of impeccable thousand-dollar suits, and grants himself five more minutes of pure self-hatred before he has to put on his cloth armor and face the world again. 

Eventually, after going through all the different ways that Lizzie’s current situation is completely and utterly his fault, he decides that feeling sorry for himself is selfish and he should be with Lizzie right now. 

Because what if she wakes up?

He is suddenly panicked at that thought, snagging a suit out of the closet and dressing quickly, not even looking to see if it matches, rushing out of the bedroom and calling for Dembe to start the car. He is almost out the door before he realizes he’s forgotten a hat. He only hesitates for half a second before he is turning on his heel and hurrying back to the bedroom to fetch one. 

He needs every piece of armor he can get today. He must be strong for Lizzie. 

They make it back to the hospital in record time, courtesy of Dembe’s creative driving, which is courtesy of Red’s pale face and dead-eyed expression. Red makes it to the correct room with no trouble. Apparently, Harold had told the agents guarding her door that he would be by and to give him no trouble. Smart man.

But Red stops.

Because here he is again, waiting. Waiting in front of Lizzie’s hospital room door, the entrance to a plain, private ward, courtesy of her government job, unable to go in.

He is afraid. 

He has no right to be, obviously. Lizzie is the one who is here, in a hospital bed, having just barely survived brain surgery. He has to be strong, strong for Lizzie, because she can’t be right now and that is his job and _what else can he do_?

He swallows and tries to take a deep breath at the same time and that doesn’t help much but he has to go in now because this is _Lizzie_ and she _needs_ him.

So, with Dembe’s comforting presence behind him, he slowly opens the door and walks in. 

He’s not sure what he expects to see. It’s not the first time he’s seen her in a hospital bed, he reminds himself viciously, and this time is no less shocking and terrifying to him than the other times. In fact, she looks perfectly normal, he thinks blankly, lying there, hand folded on her stomach, save for the bandages and machines. Almost healthy even.

But Red knows better. All the damage is inside of her.

After all, internal damage is rather his specialty.

He doesn’t realize that he’s crying again until he feels Dembe’s hand on his shoulder, steering him gently to the empty chair in the corner of the room. As he attempts to push him down into it, Red shakes off his hand. 

“No,” he mumbles, drying his eyes hastily with the back of his hand. 

He has to be strong for Lizzie.

He pulls himself up to his full height and sheds his coat and hat, tossing them carelessly onto the window sill, and pulls the chair up to Lizzie’s bedside, gritting his teeth against the next wave of tears that come from this close-up view of Lizzie’s pale, still face. 

He has cried enough.

“It’s alright, Dembe,” he says softly, though he knows he won’t disturb her. “Leave us be, please.” 

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken in the plural until Dembe pulls the door shut behind him, taking his radiating waves of concern with him.

Red lets out a shaky breath and slowly brings his hand up to lay it on the bed next to Lizzie’s lifeless one. 

_No_ , not lifeless.

Lizzie _will_ wake up. He will make sure of it. Because if she doesn’t, neither will he. 

He bites his cheek and ever so gently touches his fingertips to the back of her hand. 

“Hello, Lizzie,” he whispers.

And here he is again, waiting. Waiting for Lizzie to wake up.


End file.
